AN: Aramis and Porthos flirt with a deadly breeze and Athos reminds D'Artagnan that wherever in the world they are, he dances like a butterfly – a very gracious one. Possible trigger warning for scars, which in turn reference this fic's prequel, 'Love Will Be the Death of You.'

Aramis stumbled blearily into the mess hall the next morning, rubbing his arms absently to try and return some warmth to them. He'd been given the pre-dawn watch again, and the night had been freezing. Sauvagne had practically dragged him from his hammock and glared at him when he'd asked to go back for his jacket.

All of which meant he'd had only a few hours of sleep last night. If it hadn't been for the scant snatched hour or two in the afternoon when he'd fallen asleep with Porthos he was certain he would not have made it through the night.

As it was, he'd dozed off just before dawn and woken to an irate Sauvagne. He was certain he now had a lovely set of bruises decorating his stomach, but he supposed it was only fair. He might have put the ship in danger because he couldn't make it through his watch.

And now he had to make it through today, too.

The mess was all but empty, the dawn bell having rung only a few moments before, but Porthos was already lounging bare-chested in the corner. His face lit up in a grin when he saw Aramis, and the welcome sight was enough to rouse him a bit.

"Mornin'," Porthos said. Outwardly he seemed cheerful, but Aramis could read the undercurrent in his tone and knew Porthos was remembering the previous afternoon. Aramis had used those same memories to keep himself warm on watch.

He slid along the bench until the whole left side of his body was pressed against Porthos, for once not caring if anyone saw. He was just so tired.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, concern overtaking the lingering desire. "Is it your ribs?"

Aramis sighed, swiping a hand over his eyes as he fought the urge to just bury his face in Porthos's neck and stay there all day.

"I'm just tired," he said evasively. Porthos rubbed a hand soothingly across his shoulder blades but had to pull it away after a moment when more crew members began streaming in. He didn't question him further, though, which Aramis found slightly irritating. Not that he wanted to tell him what was going on, exactly, but it would've been nice to be asked.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. Athos was drunk and Aramis was too tired to make conversation. Porthos and D'Artagnan made a valiant effort at first but eventually gave up, eating in silence. Every few minutes Porthos would drop his hand to Aramis's thigh beneath the table, which was simultaneously comforting and infuriating, since it just reminded him of what he couldn't have.

He left ahead of the others, reaching the dawn line-up unusually early and falling in beside the old man with the eye patch. It was only when he was given a brusque nod of welcome that he realized he had never asked the man's name.

Before he could rectify his discourtesy, Sauvagne came striding out onto the deck. Aramis glanced over and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw D'Artagnan was already in line. Then he winced, noticing a man slightly older than himself dashing out seconds too late to avoid Sauvagne's attention.

"What's this then?" he asked, voice dangerously low as he stalked over to the unfortunate privateer. "Late for duty, Célain?"

"I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again," babbled Célain, eyes darting wildly around the ship. Aramis could see that Porthos and Athos had emerged from below and were watching stony-faced.

"Oh, we can be sure of that," Sauvagne said, face twisting in a cruel smile. He motioned to two of the crew members nearby, who leapt forward and grabbed Célain. "Let's gather by the mast, boys."

Aramis was swept into the push of bodies as the crew moved as one to the mast, where the two men were dragging the panicky Célain with ruthless brutality. Aramis's stomach plunged as he saw the rusty looking irons attached to the mast just above head height. Surely they wouldn't…?

But a moment later his suspicions were confirmed when Célain's shirt was ripped from his back, hands clasped cruelly into the flaking iron shackles. Sauvagne stepped forward, a long black leather whip coiled in his hands.

Aramis counted nine lengths of leather forming the tip and fought the urge to look away. He could not show weakness in the face of what seemed to be an ordinary punishment on board the ship.

Nevertheless, when Sauvagne raised his hand, he looked away, flinching bodily at the first crack of the whip. His stomach rolled at the hauntingly familiar sound. A moment later an arm brushed along his, and he turned his head to see Porthos planted firmly beside him, face grim with understanding.

Taking comfort in his solid presence, Aramis fixed his gaze on the ground and tried to control his thoughts as the whip cracked four more times, accompanied by pained cries. Then, mercifully, it was over, and Célain was being freed, staggering shakily away from the mast.

Sauvagne was re-coiling the whip in his massive hands. "Let that be a lesson to you," he called coldly, eyes roaming the sea of faces. "We do not tolerate laziness." His gaze seemed to linger a moment too long on Aramis before he turned away. "Get to work."

Aramis felt Porthos hovering over him protectively long before the crowd around them had cleared enough for Porthos to whisper, "You alright?"

Aramis nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He'd caught a glimpse of Célain's back that had set his head pounding.

Suddenly Sauvagne was in front of them, tipping his head deferentially to Porthos. "I think the captain was looking for you."

Porthos glanced at between Sauvagne and Aramis. "Actually," he said, apparently coming to a decision, "I thought I'd work the deck today. See how my men are settlin' in."

Aramis swore Sauvagne's lip curled in disdain for a moment before he said smoothly, "Of course. Perhaps the pair of you would like to join the group patching the mainsail? We've been sailing with the spare ever since those splinters poked holes in the first."

Aramis blinked at the easy assignment as Porthos nodded and led the way across the deck. The perforated sail was already being spread out along the open space near the bow, and three or four men were scrambling over it with extra canvas and needles.

"Should be right up your alley," Porthos murmured in Aramis's ear as they approached, and Aramis's heart lightened a bit. Finally, something he could do.

The second mate, whom D'Artagnan had smugly informed him was called the bosun, directed them to grab spare sailcloth and patch any tears they found. Porthos grinned at Aramis, and he couldn't resist answering it. It was the first time since they'd boarded the ship that he and Porthos had worked together.

The first half bell or so was spent mostly shoving Porthos off the spare canvas, which he would trod on intentionally so that Aramis would nearly trip. The one time he actually did fall, Porthos had merely grinned and caught him neatly, warm hands lingering over long on his waist.

Eventually Porthos stopped playing and actually got to work. By the end of the hour sweat was gleaming on his dark skin and Aramis was beginning to stab himself with the needle because he was losing focus on the work in favor of the view.

Porthos lifted a hand to swipe at the sweat railing down the back of his neck, and Aramis saw him hesitate suddenly, his hand pausing on the side of his neck. Aramis sat back, watching him closely.

Sensing his attention, Porthos shot him a wry grin and removed his fingers, revealing the edge of the fist-sized burn on the side of his neck. "Guess all this hard work's washed away my handiwork," Porthos said lightly, but his words were strained.

Before Aramis could think of what to say, the bosun shouted over for Porthos to come grab some more canvas and Porthos retreated hastily.

Aramis felt his discomfort as if it were a tangible thing. Porthos usually tried to keep that particular scar hidden in consideration of its origin. He wouldn't care about the privateers seeing it, but Aramis knew Athos and D'Artagnan would have questions.

Well, mostly D'Artagnan. Athos knew to mind his own business.

As if thinking about him had somehow summoned him, D'Artagnan appeared at his elbow, watching Porthos curiously.

"What's that on his neck-?" D'Artagnan began, but Aramis shot him a quelling glare.

"Don't bring it up, alright? If he wants you to know, he'll tell you."

"I wasn't going to ask him!" D'Artagnan protested indignantly.

Aramis snorted. "Yes you were. Now scram. Back to work, D'Art."

The boy smiled at the use of the name he'd given the privateers and vanished into the rigging a few moments before Porthos returned.

Aramis tried rapidly to think of something to say to let Porthos know that it didn't matter to any of them that he bore scars from his old life, but Porthos's face had gone unexpectedly hard. They worked in silence for a while before Aramis at last worked up the courage to speak.

"Are you… angry?" he asked quietly. Porthos grimaced, letting the canvas in his hands slip to the ground, but said nothing.

Aramis frowned, thinking hard, and then it came to him. He almost laughed. "Porthos, I warned him not to go asking insensitive questions like a fool. It doesn't bother me in the slightest."

Porthos's startled, guilty look told Aramis he'd been dead on. "I didn't think-," he began awkwardly, but Aramis waved off the jumbled apology.

"We all have our scars, Porthos," he reminded him quietly. "The others will not think less of you for yours. But perhaps you should tell them what happened before they figure it out on their own."

Porthos shot him a sheepish grin, gathering up the fallen canvas. "When did you get so wise?" he grumbled teasingly.

Aramis laughed as he knelt down beside a particularly wide tear. "One of us had to be the wise one now that Athos is so deep in his bottles."

Porthos chuckled and returned to his work, but Aramis noticed that his hand would creep back to the side of his neck every few minutes. He glanced down at his sleeves, realizing what he had to do. Besides, he was too hot anyway.

Casually, as if he thought nothing of it, he rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, one after the other. Porthos stilled but said nothing, watching silently. Aramis did not glance up as he went back to work, trying to keep his eyes from lingering too much on the thick scars encircling his wrists.

After a moment, Porthos knelt down beside him, muscled shoulder brushing Aramis's as he reached out to hold the sailcloth in place. He did not speak, but the grateful squeeze he gave Aramis's forearm told him that he had done the right thing.

It was about time they stopped letting their scars define them.

When they returned from lunch, the bosun told their group that the sail was as patched up as it was going to get and sent them into the rigging to check the lines. Porthos watched Aramis carefully as they climbed, making sure he was ready to grab him if Aramis decided to demonstrate his lack of suitability for sea life once again.

The scars around his wrists were vivid in the sunlight, and Porthos felt a rush of warmth at the thought that Aramis had finally stopped hiding them in public. For him. Perhaps, in time, the others would follow.

Thankfully they made it to the tops without any issue, and after checking that the bosun was not watching too closely Porthos grinned at Aramis and gestured towards the where the crossbar met the mast. "Relax, I can take care of this."

Aramis smiled gratefully and leaned back against the thick round of the mast, fingers clutching at the ropes for balance. Porthos grinned at his lover's white knuckled grip and swallowed the urge to tease him for being a landlubber. Aramis already hated that he was useless in the most important part of the ship.

It was peaceful in the tops, straightening lines that had tangled in the strong breeze and gazing out over the endless expanse of the ocean.

"Does it ever end?" Aramis murmured, sounding awed.

"When you reach the colonies, yeah," Porthos chuckled, changing his tone from sarcastic to affectionate when he noticed the faraway look in Aramis's eyes.

"What are they like?" he asked, looking out ahead of the ship as if he could see them already.

Porthos paused in his work, glancing back at Aramis. He seemed so young without his hat, barefoot and sunburned. He looked… well, he looked like a pirate, especially with the green bandanna and Porthos's earring, which glinted in the sun.

"They're nothin' like home," he said at last, trying to call up hazy images of long ago trips. "It's hot there, and the water is bluer than you've ever seen. All the beaches have white sand and sparkle in the sun." He stopped, smiling at the fascinated look in Aramis's eyes.

"It sounds beautiful," Aramis breathed rapturously.

"It is. You're gonna love it," Porthos told him, already imagining how Aramis would look beneath him on that white sand.

Aramis's lips curved up in a graceful smile. "How much longer before we get there?"

Porthos thought for a moment. "Another two or three weeks at least."

Aramis's pleased expression fell immediately, shutters going up behind his warm eyes. "What's wrong?" Porthos asked, pleasant thoughts deserting him in the face of Aramis's blatant unhappiness.

Aramis hesitated, something unreadable at war in his eyes. "It just seems like such a long time," he said softly, and Porthos was forcibly reminded of how tired he'd seemed this morning.

"Rubbish, it's not so bad," he murmured, stepping forward until he could brace his hands against the mast on either side of Aramis's head. "We'll be there before you know it."

Aramis sighed and looked away. Cursing internally, Porthos scanned the rigging nearby, making sure there was no one to see. Then he leaned forward, crowding Aramis up against the mast.

"Just think about being back on land," he said, pitching his voice low. Aramis's eyes widened. "We'll go find an inn and finally have some privacy."

He could see desire warring with uncertainty and added, in a fit of inspiration, "An inn with a bathtub."

Aramis's face broke into a wide smile, and Porthos laughed, leaning in closer. Aramis breached the last of the distance, pressing against Porthos's chest as his lips met his own in a fast, desperate kiss.

It was over too fast, both of them overly aware of how easily they could be spotted. "Why aren't we on land already?" Aramis grumbled as Porthos stepped back.

"Soon, love," he chuckled, and the words were a promise.

A commotion from below drew his attention and he leaned around Aramis to peer down the length of the mast. He groaned, dropping his head forward against Aramis's shoulder. "Shit."

"What is it?" Aramis asked curiously, trying to twist free from his pinned position to see what was going on.

"It's Athos."

"What's he doing now?"

"D'Artagnan just showed up too," Porthos added dismally. "We'd better get down there."

He leaned back reluctantly and began to scramble down the mast, careful to check every few seconds to make sure Aramis hadn't lost his footing in his haste, which would inevitably have sent them both to their deaths.

They reached the base of the mast fairly quickly and Porthos shoved his way through the crowd gathering around Athos and another man, who was staring at the older Musketeer with an expression of great disdain.

"Look at 'im. He's so drunk 'e can barely walk. Who voted on 'im as quartermaster, eh? I don't trust 'im with my provisions. And 'e don't even share 'is wine."

D'Artagnan was standing a step behind Athos, glowering at the challenger with an outraged expression.

"What's all this, then?" Porthos asked loudly, breaking through the circle at last. The man shot him an anxious look but held his ground.

"I don't trust 'im," he said, gesturing at Athos. "What good 'is he to us? A lazy drunk who don't help with the ship and ain't no good in a fight."

"I am excellent in a fight," Athos said very clearly. Rage bubbled in Porthos's stomach when the men laughed.

"You mighta been good when we caught your little boat, but you weren't drunk then," a man in the crowd called.

"I assure you I can take any man here, drunk or sober."

Across the circle, Porthos saw that Gavillier and Sauvagne had arrived, watching silently from the outskirts.

"I don' believe you," the challenger sneered.

Athos's mouth twitched grimly. "Then test me. Let's see the best you have to offer."

The man laughed derisively. "The best? No, I don' want any o' my friends taken up for murdering your sorry ass. You c'n fight a young'un." His eyes fell on D'Artagnan. "How about 'im? He's not likely to kill you, 'is he?"

"I'll put ten sous on the pup!" Another man called, initiating a rapid series of bets, almost all of which favored D'Artagnan.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw Aramis hide a grin. He wanted to laugh himself: these men were about to get much more than they had bargained for.

"With your permission, captain?" Athos drawled, glancing over at Gavillier, who nodded. Athos drew his rapier while a spare was passed to D'Artagnan, who was looking oddly nervous.

Porthos crossed to him in the guise of checking his weapon while Aramis did the same for Athos. "What's wrong, lad?"

"I haven't fought outside a battle in ages," he whispered. "What if I hurt him?"

Porthos chuckled. "You won't. Between you and me, Athos is s good drunk as he is sober." D'Artagnan's eyes widened and Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

He stepped back into the circle beside Aramis, watching as Athos and D'Artagnan fell into the ready stance. "Begin," he called.

D'Artagnan moved first, as he always did, launching in with a quick swipe aimed at Athos's head. Athos parried the blade with enviable ease, smiling lazily at the boy, who shook his head and danced in for another attack, cutting this time for Athos's legs.

Athos twisted away and went on the offensive himself, rapier whistling around to clash with D'Artagnan's in a dazzling arc. The circle widened as the pair whirled around each other. They were putting on a good show, and the crowd was beginning to look rather awed, but Porthos could see the restrain they were exercising.

They didn't want the privateers to know just how capable they were.

Suddenly D'Artagnan dove into a gap in Athos's guard, and Porthos raised an eyebrow as Athos's sword was twisted from his hand. At his side, Aramis shifted, frowning. "Athos let him do that," he muttered, and Porthos nodded his agreement. Athos had left that hole on purpose, and D'Artagnan had known it was coming.

What were they playing at?
"The boy wins!" Gavillier called over the cheers of the crowd, which surged forward to offer congratulations to both parties, regarding each Musketeer with healthy amounts of respect.

The original challenger stepped forward, looking shamefaced. "'M sorry," he mumbled to Athos. "You're better than I thought." Athos inclined his head graciously, accepting the apology as he stepped over to Porthos and Aramis.

"You let him win," Aramis whispered when he was close enough, glancing over to where the men were still crowding around D'Artagnan.

Athos gave him a pointed look. "They all had money on him. They'd hardly like me if they lost their hard earned sous, would they?"

"You lost to make them like you more?" Porthos asked, laughing.

"And to make them like him more," Athos shrugged, nodding at D'Artagnan, who was beaming under the attention. "I don't need to interact with them. Better they like him than me."

Aramis nodded his understanding. "That was wise."

"Well, that was great fun!" Gavillier boomed, striding into the mass of men and shoving purposefully until they backed into a circle once more. "It's been a long time since we saw such an invigorating display. But I wonder—would you like to see more?"

The men cheered. Athos met Porthos's eye, one eyebrow raised inquiringly, but Porthos shrugged. He didn't know what Gavillier was doing.

"We've seen great skill already, but wouldn't you like to see the masters?" Gavillier cried, smiling broadly. Porthos stiffened as Gavillier glanced over at him, suddenly realizing where this was going.

"Shall we duel, old friend?"

If you want to know more about Porthos's scar, well…. Go read 'Love Will Be the Death of You' ;)